


Thanks for Sharing

by GhostGarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Frottage, M/M, Shotgunning, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam wait for their dad to finish a hunt, and both are a little <i>wound up.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for Sharing

Click. Click.

A sigh.

Click. Click.

Dean is absently playing with his lighter, flicking the cap on and off with a quick practiced motion of his wrist. The tiny flame casts a little light against the car doors for the split seconds it's open. With another click, the car goes dark again.

Outside, it's cold, wet, and the midnight sky is black and starless. The light from the moon just barely reaches through the trees of the forest the Impala is currently parked in. They're just off the highway, far away from it to not be seen and close enough to escape if anything finds them.

Click. Click.

They're silent, basking in the peaceful night but still struggling to keep alert. There's a monster nearby, but their dad is hunting it. Either way, Dean knows to stay vigilant just in case.

Click. Click.

But Dean can tell Sam is getting restless. Every couple of minutes, his little brother taps his toes together and shifts his position in the shotgun seat, like he's bored and uncomfortable. Both of which are probably true.

Sam's playing with the zipper of his jacket, a little too big for his shoulders, but he'll grow into it. Sam is already almost as tall as Dean, and dad said he'll just keep growing.

Dean just keeps flicking his lighter.

Click. Click.

Open. Closed. On. Off.

Sam stops playing with his zipper pull, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Dean?"

"Hn?" Dean replies, eyes not leaving the flickering flame of his lighter. He'll have to get more fluid soon.

"When is dad coming back?"

Dean shrugs. "Like he said before, when the-"

"-hunt is over, I know." Sam looks at Dean impatiently. "But when will that be?"

"When dad kills the monster." Dean flicks his lighter closed like a punctuation mark, trying to end the conversation before it even begins, but Sam keeps going anyways.

"How do we know when that is?" Sam is basically repeating himself. He asks this almost every time their dad leaves them for a hunt, and it's finally driving Dean insane.

"I don't know!" Dean shouts, thumping his forehead exasperatedly against the wheel and sighing. He rolls the lighter in-between his palms, feeling the metal under his fingertips. "I don't know, Sam. Cool your jets."

Sam is quiet, looking from his brother to the trees outside. "Sorry," he apologizes.

"Nah, Sammy. I'm just a little wound-up."

"Why?" Sam asks, and it's not as annoying as the 'why's he's asked before.

"Because," Dean starts, gathering his thoughts. "Dad's on a hunt, and I could be helping. But instead, I'm-…"

"Instead you're here," Sam's voice drops, "watching me."

Dean doesn't want to admit it, but Sam hit the nail on the head. Sure, their dad could handle everything and anything, but he could always use extra help. Especially tonight. But Sam was too young to help on hunts, and someone needed to make sure he's safe. That responsibility naturally fell on Dean, but sometimes he wished it didn't.

"Sammy…"

Sam doesn't reply to Dean's plea, instead looking out the window again and ignoring his brother.

Dean looks back between his brother, his glove compartment, and the lighter in his hands. He makes the the loop three more times before sighing, frustrated. Sam's gaze doesn't leave the window. Dean reaches over in front of Sam and opens the glovebox, rummaging through some lore books they store there to a little plastic bag he knows he keeps stashed behind them.

Finding it, Dean pulls it out and closes the box with a snap. Sam jumps at the sound, whipping his attention from the trees outside to the bag in Dean's hands. His eyes follow it in interest, watching Dean open the bag and pull out a small, thinly rolled sticks.

"Is that…?" Sam asks, eyeing the white rolled-up paper of the joint.

"Like I said, I'm a bit wound-up."

"And you're… what, smoking pot?"

"Calms me down." Dean huffs out a sarcastic laugh, shoving the plastic bag between the door and the seat to be discarded later. "Hell, it calms anyone down."

"Dean."

"Hm?" Dean hums, flicking his lighter open a few times, trying to get it to spark. What a time for it to die.

"Share it."

Dean's hands freeze around the warm metal of his lighter and he looks over at his brother. "What?"

Sam meets his eyes, full of curiosity. "I wanna try it."

"Hell no, Sammy." Dean shakes his head, trying to light his lighter again. "Besides, aren't you like, twelve?"

"I'm thirteen, Dean."

"Same difference," Dean shrugs, finally getting a flame out of his lighter and holding the joint between it and his mouth. He inhales, glancing from the corner of his eye at Sam, who was staring mesmerized.

Dean brings the joint up to his mouth again, and Sam puts on his biggest puppy-pout face. "I said no, dude."

"Come on, Dean," Sam whines, pouting more and leaning in towards his brother.

Dean shakes his head, taking another inhale from the joint. He leans his head back against the top of the bench, resting it there while blowing out the smoke against the ceiling of the Impala. The smoke disperses in all directions, some escaping out of Dean's cracked window, and a few wayward wisps of smoke reach Sam's nose.

Sam sniffs the smoke and frowns. "I'm not gonna sit here and watch you smoke weed and wait for Dad who may or may not come back-"

"Don't say that!" Dean snaps, looking over angrily at his brother across the seat.

"I know, just… You're not the only one…" Sam continues carefully, "…wound-up these days."

Dean's eyes widen, and Sam feels suddenly uncomfortable under Dean's inscrutable stare.

"Jeesus, Sammy…" Dean begins, breathing smoke out of his nostrils and watching the tendrils disperse into the air.

Sam looks at him pleadingly, eying the joint between Dean's lips and licking his own, and Dean feels his defenses drop like the Berlin wall.

"Yeah, fine."

Dean hands the joint over, unlit portion towards Sam for safety. Smiling softly, Sam takes it out of his hand and raises it to his lips. Dean watches his brother take his first hit, captivated by the sight.

Sam chokes on the first lungful and sputters out smoke from his mouth and ears.

"Nah, Sammy, you've gotta inhale like you're breathing'," Dean instructs. "You don't swallow it."

Sam tries again but still chokes, and Dean eyes the burning end of the joint, knowing they'll run out if Sam keeps on taking his sweet ass time with this.

"I'm trying," Sam coughs, staring at the joint like it's a puzzle.

"Let me." Dean reaches for it, but Sam is a little reluctant to give it up. Scooting across the bench seat, Dean crowds Sam against the door. His brother eyes him intently, unsure of what Dean was doing or what he should be doing. Dean takes another inhale and leans in extra close--his face only a few inches from Sam's-- and breathes the smoke in Sam's face.

Sam catches on fairly quickly, breathing in the smoke that Dean has given him. He only gets a little, as most of the smoke escapes into the rest of the car. Dean doesn't retreat at all, but instead brings his hand back up to take another puff of the joint.

"Again," Dean whispers before taking a drag.

Sam nods, speechless. His lips part to softly inhale the smoke, and while doing so brushes noses with Dean, only a little. Sam draws back quickly at the touch, hitting his head on the glass of the window and wincing.

"Hah," Dean chuckles as Sam winces but doesn't complain. "Feelin' it yet, Sammy?"

Sam frowns. He doesn't feel any different. A little lightheaded, maybe, but he gets this way due to dehydration sometimes too, so really he has no clue. "Not really."

It's Dean's turn to frown, and his face twists up as he sighs. He lazily studies the joint in his hand, and his gaze flickers to Sam's face and Sam's mouth several times in the process. He fills his mouth back up with smoke, taking a little longer drag than he has before.

Their eyes meet again as Dean dives back in, this time Dean closing the already small distance between them and brushing their lips together. Sam gasps at the contact and Dean takes advantage to seal his mouth over his brother's.

Dean breathes out, Sam breathes in.

On instinct. Like they've done it before.

It was a big breath of smoke and it fills Sam's lungs to the brim. Dean pulls away as Sam calmly breathes it out again, smoke trailing out of his mouth and a little out his nose. Dean looks expectantly at his brother, wordlessly asking if Sam enjoyed it or not.

"Again," is all Sam can say, reaching out for the collar of Dean's shirt, pulling him close again. Dean smiles and obliges him, blowing another mouthful of smoke into Sam's.

His brother inhales deeply, sucking the air out of Dean's mouth and lingers there after the transfer is done. Their lips part and they gaze into each other's eyes for a few moments before Sam pulls him in closer, pulling Dean nearly onto his lap.

"Again," Sam hisses, smoke coming out with the single syllable.

Dean goes to take another puff, but Sam's hand lands on his arm, stopping him from bringing the joint to his lips. Instead, Sam tugs at Dean's shirt collar, bringing him in closer… and even closer… for a kiss.

And Dean knows it's all over for them by that point.

The one kiss turned into two, and then four, and then Dean lost count, head fuzzy with weed smoke and the smell of his brother's hoodie.

Sam's lips are soft, but just a little roughed up where the kid was always biting them in concentration. It's a cute habit, and always gets Dean a little hot and bothered when he sees it in action. But now, here he is, getting first-hand experience with those pink lips.

Hands settle at Dean's hips pulling him to lay down across the bench, next to Sam. They lay unbearably close, facing each other only a hair-width apart. Dean can feel Sam's erection pressed up to the front of his jeans.

"Wound-up in more ways than one, huh?" Dean smirks, pressing his hips forwards to grind against Sam's.

Sam only grumbles. "Another hit."

"Bossy," Dean comments, bringing the joint back up to his lips. When he transfers the smoke to Sam, it feels more like a kiss this time. Sam pulls his head back in and kisses him right after, blowing smoke out his nostrils while he does it, and Dean thinks that's super hot.

Sam's hands burrow under Dean's layers of clothing, cold fingers finding hot skin and rubbing small circles on the smooth skin of his back. It makes Dean shudder. He'd do the same for Sam if he didn't have a glowing joint between his fingers.

Instead, Dean rolls his hips forward against Sam's. He only does it a little, but Sam's response is great, a little moan and a small roll of his own hips. Dean smiles.

He takes another inhale, this time just for himself, and Sam whines a little. Sam looks a little out of it, and Dean figures they should stop--at least for the night. He extinguishes the nearly finished joint on an old newspaper on the ground of the Impala, sizzling until it's dead.

Sam makes a sound of annoyance in his throat, now that the weed is gone, so Dean quickly focuses on satiating his younger brother.

Dean cups Sam's head, bringing him close for a kiss. He slides his tongue in and is met with Sam's battling one. Sam makes a please sound, becoming more enthusiastic by the second. The rough texture of Sam's tongue feels amazing against his own, and Dean can't get enough of it.

Settling his other hand at Sam's waist, Dean brings their hips closer to grind them together. He's incredibly hard at this point, and he totally expected to be. Especially with all the little sounds Sam has been making all night and his pink lips wet from kissing and the feeling of Sam's hardness against his own.

They exchange languid kisses there, pressed together on the car bench seat. Dean expertly rolls their hips together, creating as much friction he can while there's still layers of clothing between them. Sam's doing his part, too, by ravaging Dean's mouth with his tongue. Dean wonders if Sam's had experience or if being an awesome kisser is a family trait.

Sam comes much quicker than Dean, and moans out a garbled mess of something that sounds like a mixture between 'fuck yeah' and Dean's name. When Dean comes, he groans out a 'Sam' and his hips stutter, working his way through the orgasm.

They lay there, sweaty and satisfied and flying high, with the windows of the Impala foggy and the front of their jeans wet.

Sam grins a dopey smile, the one that almost always makes Dean smile in return. "Thanks for sharing."

"No problem, Sammy."


End file.
